Evil Rhythm of the Soul
by Zorra Reed
Summary: "Happy Holidays, Mrs. Dursley," I grinned. I could see my reflection in her glassy eyes, as she lifelessly stared up at me from the floor where I'd left her.


Warning: Character Death and Violence. Harry Potter and co. are property of J.K. Rowling.

* * *

 _Death, murder, slaughter_  
 _To kill with knife or gun_  
 _To cut a straight line_  
 _To watch the blood, dark dark red_  
 _Flowing from the dead_  
 _Death, murder, slaughter_

 **Evil Rhythm of the Soul  
** Author: Zorra Reed  
 _Moonrise Inn Publications_

"Happy Holidays, Mrs. Dursley," I grinned. I could see my reflection in her glassy eyes, as she lifelessly stared up at me from the floor where I'd left her.

2am Christmas morning

I covered her mouth with my hand as she tried to scream and struggle away from me. It was her own fault really, she'd come down the stairs and into the kitchen for a cup of tea in the middle of the night, just after I'd entered the house. Had she retained the good sense to remain upstairs, tucked into her bed dreaming of Santa, her death would have been postponed. This early arrival, allotted me time to enjoy my kill in a way I otherwise would not have had the pleasure of experiencing.

Naturally, I couldn't have her waking the rest of the house, could I? No, that wouldn't bode well for me. So I firmly took hold of her arm with my free hand and shoved a wet cloth from the sink into her mouth; the whore scratched me as I did so. I hissed but reframed from cursing at her, not wishing to chance so much as a whisper when a forceful slap would do the job. She must have sensed something after that, or perhaps it was the sadistic smile splitting my face as I examined the bloody scratches she'd left upon my arm, for she stiffened in my grip rather suddenly.

Chuckling, I forced her to bend over the sink and shoved the hand that had scratched me into the garbage disposal. Her eyes widened in fear. I twisted her other arm behind her so far she was forced to double over into the sink or risk a dislocation. Using my own weight to pin her in place, I leaned over her willowy form, effectively trapping her. I had something delightful in mind which required the use of both my hands.

Just for a moment however, I indulged and aloud myself the luxury of reaching up her night shirt (incredibly easy, considering she'd been kind enough to wear a two piece), and felt at her sagging breasts. She sobbed behind the cloth, humiliated as her body instinctively flinched back to avoid the touch. Naughty woman, tempting me, begging me. I rub up against her for a moment more; if only she weren't such an ugly duckling, I might have been willing to go further. Oh well, on to business.

Pulling my hand away from her ripe tit, I reached for the knife that was hanging from my belt. I aligned the blade with her kidney and reached over to the wall switch, turning on the disposal. I let it run for a moment, hoping none had heard the gargling-grind of the blades as they sawed through bone. She reacted; her body arched back away from the source of pain only to sheathe the knife. Her pained cries, muffled by the gag, where like music to my ears.

I eased back a step, then another, settling her body on the kitchen floor. Her hand was mangled, two fingers missing and shattered bone jutting out from the third, which hung by a cord of flesh. Blood pooled about her. I knelt just outside its reach to retrieve my blade. Now, I wasn't about to let this horse of a woman suffer needlessly, that would be cruel and I wasn't without a heart. What she needed was comfort. Tilting the blade just so, I allowed her to examine the treasure she'd given up for me, her life's blood. Amidst the horror and pain that flashed across her expression, I recognized a rooted hatred seeded deep in her gaze. There there, the poor thing. Oh, the little things I do for people. I raised the knife and cut deeply into her throat.

She must have swallowed the cloth because strange sounds emerged from her twitching body. My pleasure was complete. With a grin, I tasted her blood as it oozed across the blade, then cleaned it with the cloth of her nighty. Her body's convulsions grew more violent. Then, the Bitch was dead.

Time to head up stairs….

* * *

A/N: After reading "At Home with the Dursleys" written by Relle, I was so full of creative energy that I just had to write. I was reading her wonderful reviews when I came across this one bye Chibi-Chingo, where she sort of bashes Relle's mental state (not her writing). Well, between Relle killing the Dursleys and Chibi's wonderful choice of words, I was inspired!


End file.
